Hunted by a Freak
by That's LEON
Summary: Altaïr/Kadar, pregame. There's something about Malik's disapproval that intrigues him as much as it infuriates him, and he can't think of a better blow to Malik's rigid pride than to be able to laugh and tell him, "I took your brother."


It's not hard to tell that Kadar wants him. The boy admires him openly, fawns over his rank and his skill, crops up in his vicinity far too often to be attributed to pure coincidence. But it's the restraint to his eagerness that gives him away--a subtle shyness, like he doesn't want anyone to know the full extent of his thoughts. Everyone else writes it off as idol-worship--and that's all it is, really. And Altaïr knows that, but it doesn't change the fact that, even when he's brimming with unabashed admiration, the younger assassin is hiding something.

It also doesn't change the fact--or, perhaps more appropriately, it _is_ the fact--that he could fuck Kadar at the drop of a hat. And Malik knows it, too, if the warning tone of his voice and his watchful glares are any indication.

_Don't touch him_, he always seems to be saying, when the three of them are together. _Don't you dare_. There's a death threat in Malik's eyes, and that--more than anything--convinces Altaïr that Kadar is worth having. There's something about Malik's disapproval that intrigues him as much as it infuriates him, and he can't think of a better blow to Malik's rigid pride than to be able to laugh and tell him, _I took your brother._ It's too perfect.

_I took him, right under your nose._

So he does, one night, when Malik is out and Kadar has (predictably, foolishly, perhaps slightly endearingly) found an excuse to be around. It's no accident that they stray away from the crowd of assassins, or that they end up in the wooden shed nearby. It would make a good hiding place, if he was running from guards--but right now, Altaïr's the one doing the chasing. He backs the younger assassin against the far wall, thinks he can feel him shiver as he looks him in the eye.

Kadar seems younger like this, trapped against him, looking equal parts nervous and determined. There's something about him that has always struck Altaïr as child-like, something that has made the gap of a few years between them seem like a chasm between worlds. He has never felt that Kadar is on the same plane of existence as him, in the same way he feels disconnected from older men like Al-Mualim and from children he sees playing in the streets. Now he knows why he feels so separated despite their ages--knows that youth is too broad a commonality to unite them.

Altaïr is young because he is brash. Kadar is young because he is innocent. That makes all the difference in the world.

"Hasn't your brother warned you against me?" he asks with a smirk, and he can hear Kadar moisten his lips before he speaks.

"He's tried."

"Hm." Altaïr presses a hand to the boy's chest--a little rough, a little demanding--biding his time and admiring the quickening of Kadar's heartbeat beneath his palm. He has him, trapped, his to toy with, and he loves the thought of it. "And still, you followed me out here, knowing my intentions. That might have been a bad idea."

"I don't care," Kadar says firmly. "I.... You're..." He trails off, like he has no idea how to justify wanting this, and for a moment he falters. Then, his voice sets again as he apparently remembers that it doesn't need justification. It just _is_, and that's more than enough to act on; Altaïr can respect that conviction. Kadar reaches out and grasps the back of his hood and pulls him closer. "I don't care," he repeats. There's challenge in his voice, and it sounds like Malik. "I know what I want."

Altaïr would believe that Kadar's feeling as bold as he's trying to act, if he couldn't feel the pulse hammering beneath his hand. He assumes he has the reigns now, and takes his time, watching the other's nerves wear down with a sharp, unyielding gaze, relishing the uncertainty that flickers across the boy's features.

But Kadar surprises him again, leaning back almost comfortably and reaching up to trace the scar over his mouth. A fingertip strokes along the thin line of tissue, catching against his bottom lip each time, and Altaïr realizes that the kid has probably _always_ wanted to do this. That realization should probably bother him more than it actually does. It's just a scar, he almost says dismissively. One of many. It's just a little blemish, just a mark on his face, just a permanent reminder of a passing moment of stupidity. But Kadar seems so intrigued by it--so impressed by this little thing that is nothing--and Altaïr lets it go.

No one has ever paid attention to his scars before. Except for Malik, sort of, who glances vaguely over them and takes each one as an admission of failure. As proof that he was too slow once, was bested once, was _not good enough_ once. He's heard Kadar tell his brother that it's not true--that each one is a sign of courage, of strength, of perseverance in the face of death. He's heard Malik laugh bitterly and tell Kadar he'd make a better poet than a killer.

Altaïr agrees with him there. Some people are made for this profession. Some people are born to live by their blades, inclined towards solitude and detachment, but Kadar is not one of them. He has a sense of duty, and that's why he's here--but when it comes down to it, Altaïr suspects he pities every man he's killed.

He can't stand that, in the same way he can't stand Kadar's quiet smile.

He pulls the hand away from his mouth, pinning it above them with his own, and leans over the boy. Lips hover over lips, maddeningly near, and he hears Kadar's breath hitch in his throat. For a moment, he entertains the thought of pressing him up against the wall and kissing him breathless. He thinks of teasing him into oblivion, of letting the other show him how badly he's wanted this. But it's only a moment, and his mouth is at Kadar's ear instead. "I don't kiss," he says, mostly for his own gratification, and he receives a mute nod in response. He reaches beneath the other assassin's robes and listens to the sharp intake of breath--listens to the little whine of pleasure and anticipation he elicits as he strokes.

He fucks Kadar there later, on the bare wooden floor, not caring that the boy will have splinters in the heels of his hands and scrapes on his knees. If he wanted a lover who cared if he was comfortable or not, Altaïr thinks, he would have picked someone else to follow around. Because if there's one person Altaïr doesn't give a shit about, it's whomever he happens to be fucking at the moment.

But he has an inexplicable desire to see Kadar's face, so he hauls the younger assassin up and pushes him down onto a nearby mound of hay, which compresses beneath their combined weight. Kadar's eyes meet his, startling blue now dark with lust, before they flutter back shut. He watches the boy's features draw together as he fucks him into the hay--watches his lips press together before parting with a gasp, watches his eyebrows furrow, watches the flush of arousal thrown carelessly across his cheeks.

The boy is absolutely _writhing_ with pleasure as Altaïr thrusts into him, fingers clenching and unclenching, lips releasing a broken stream of _yes_, and _more_, and _Altaïr, oh, fuck,** Altaïr**._ Kadar tosses his head and bites his lip, groaning helplessly as he's mercilessly driven towards orgasm. He manages a syllable of warning, a strangled, gasping moan. And then he digs his nails further into Altaïr's skin as he shudders and cries wordlessly out, pushing back hard on the older man's cock and stilling as he comes.

Altaïr gives him a moment--not because he cares if Kadar enjoys himself, he thinks resolutely, but because he likes to think he's good at this. He looks at the younger assassin lying beneath him, sweaty and disheveled, breath sawing out of his lungs, and wonders what Malik would say if he could see them now. He starts moving again before Kadar can find his bearings, pulling a breathy moan from the boy with each thrust until he finishes inside of him.

He's holding himself there, braced above Kadar on both arms and catching his breath, when the blue-eyed assassin leans up and kisses him. It's just a gentle press of lips against the corner of his mouth, but it catches him off-guard, and that's not something he's used to. "I told you," he says. "I don't--"

"I know." And he does it again, with a smug little grin, before sitting up. "So don't. You never said _I_ couldn't kiss _you_."

Before Altaïr can protest, Kadar kisses him one last time, square on the mouth. Lips move reverently over his own, unassuming but unhalting, then pull away to smile at him.

It's not until Altaïr is running from Solomon's Temple that he regrets not kissing back.

* * *

My first Ass Creed fic, eep. Originally written on the kink meme, xposted to LJ.

Feedback would be fantastic, not only because I'm new to the fandom and have no idea what I'm doing, but also so I can decide where to post my fic on in the future. Please let me know if you'd prefer to see fic on **FFnet** or **Livejournal.** (Or both? XD)

Thanks!


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